Poetry

Spring 2013

 

 

Andrea M. Lockett

Womanly

We are on the train late,
riding from Crown Heights
to Greenpoint,
our bodies bumping
back and forth
with the rhythm
of the G-train.
Our clothes are perfumed
with the smoke from a party
of colleagues, not friends.

Weed never affected me,
scarred lungs, blistered body.
But you begin to weep.
I don't love you,
you say, turning to me.
And I do
the womanly thing:
shield your shame
from staring strangers,
tell you it's OK,
—OK that you don't love me—
hold you close against this breast
that you don't love.
I find a tissue in my pocket,
wipe your face,
watch out for our stop.
Take you home and fix us
a drink.

 

 

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